The night we lost thirteen of them,
tremors shook along New Madrid fault.
In field after field the moon rose
to its own face echoed back,
cattle circling a crater’s rim.
Along these margins, life had fixed—
an algal bloom, its underwater thud.
They were sucked through vast caverns.
In the Caveland, every pond’s a fluke.
Let them be brief, then, as the land
gives up the ghost of fog, morning
in the sway-backed enclaves.
Already the clay dries and separates
along small faults. We expect no return.
Not even a tadpole’s kink in mud
where Jesus bugs made miracles...